Into the Broken Beat: Me & the Marching Bands Book 3

Chapter 1

[ Monday – Second Week of School – Late August, 1993 ]

I was exhausted.

Not like sleepy-tired. Not even sore-tired. I mean the kind of tired that lives deep in your bones. The kind you feel in your molars.

My socks were soaked through with sweat. My jaw ached from clenching too hard every time I missed a step. And my right hand, specifically the first knuckle of my index finger, was tingling like I’d smacked it with a rubber mallet.

I’d been in Ashmore, Alabama for about ten weeks. Moved in June. Survived two weeks of band camp in early August. Started school last week.

But I still hadn’t unpacked my heart. I missed Marissa like I’d left part of my lungs in Florida. Everything felt harder without her near.

Somewhere across the patchy practice field, a whistle shrieked three short blasts. A sousaphone let out a groan like it was dying, either from heatstroke or the wrong notes.

Still, no one called break.

Water. Must have water.

I sat at the edge of the grass near the painted sideline, my legs stretched out in front of me, knees crusted with dirt and sunscreen.

“Find your fire!” Mr. Garrison’s voice echoed across the practice field.

Fire? My head is on fire. It’s hot out here.

The sun baked the top of my head. My throat felt like I’d been gargling with cotton. From here, I could see the full field, lines chalked unevenly across the grass, faded cones marking yard lines, a few water coolers sweating near the fifty.

And twenty yards away, the Pride of Northwest Marching Band moved around the practice field like the day wasn’t melting around them.

I flopped down on the sideline. My shirt stuck to my back. My mouth tasted like copper and sand.

This wasn’t band camp anymore. This was an afternoon rehearsal following a full day of classes, chemistry quizzes, cafeteria pizza, and exactly 42 minutes of pretending to care in English class.

Then over an hour of after school marching practice under a sun that didn’t understand mercy. The Pride of Northwest didn’t waste time. We were barely a week into school, and Mr. Garrison, who liked to be called “Mr. G,” already had us repping the closer like it was game night.

I should’ve been out there with them, running the top of the closer, left hash, fifteen steps back from the front sideline. But my bottom lip split on the third pass, and Mr. G gave me a hand signal like “sit it out before your face falls off.”

I sat there on the sidelines wishing for a cloud. The early afternoon sun still radiated almost 90 degrees of punishment at 4:40 p.m. I watched my new bandmates tear up the field like they’d been born there.

A little over three weeks ago, they were all strangers.

And a little over two months ago, I was ending my time at Voyager. Packing up a life that finally felt steady, only to leave it behind. Again.

It was weird making all new memories without her in them. Like I was out here on pause while we waited to hit play again. The first few weeks after I moved, we did everything we could to shrink the distance: late night phone calls until Mom tapped on my door, letters stuffed with doodles and song lyrics, a few cassette tapes where I played rough demos and she sent back roughly recorded copies of them with her giving commentary over tracks. She mailed me Polaroids from youth group, scrawled with jokes on the white edges. I sent her set lists and inside jokes from Voyager, like we could keep our old world alive if we just wrote enough words on paper.

***

The Pride of Northwest High School Marching Band wasn’t just a normal high school band.

If Jameson and Voyager were different planets, then Northwest was a different galaxy.

They didn’t warm up with long tones and chorales. They warmed up with chants. With stomps. With percussion cadences, complete with sharp, snare-punch hits the drumline threw in just to make sure everybody was awake.

The trumpet warmup we used every afternoon started with a lip slur and ended with a wail-as-high-as-you-can section.

All of us. Every trumpet. Play as loud as you can.

Blasting… but with class. They called it “cranking.” It was new to me. But I loved the energy.

Everything had a buzz to it. Everything had movement. It was like someone had told these kids they weren’t just playing for a crowd, it was their job, their calling, to set the stadium on fire.

This wasn’t your standard suburban marching band. Not Jameson’s strict corps-driven competitiveness. Not Voyager’s laid-back Florida oldies fun.

This was flashy horn flips, soulful dance breaks, and high steps so tight they snapped. It wasn’t just a different band, it was an entire culture I hadn’t grown up inside.

And yet, it pulled me in anyway.

I slid into formation as the low brass laid into a groove that felt more like a basement jam session than a warmup. The field buzzed with chants, claps, and snappy drum stick-on-rim taps that cracked through the air like fireworks.

I wasn’t the only one who stood out a little, Clarence on lead snare, Diane with her clarinet upfield, Bobby squinting into the sun like he wasn’t sure if he should salute or run, and a handful of others.

We weren’t many, but we were here. And the rhythm of the culture didn’t slow down to explain itself. It just kept moving, welcomed us in, and dared us to catch up.

Most of the kids around me had that built-in confidence. The kind you don’t fake. Even in the heat, everyone looked like they’d stepped onto the field straight from the hallway. Polos with crisp collars, striped rugby shirts with baggy jeans, necklaces and chains catching just enough light to make a point.

Nobody wore athletic shorts, but sleeves were rolled, windbreakers tied low, and sneakers? Clean. Always.

“The music says punch, but you out here petting the air!” Mr. G barked from the sideline, holding a megaphone and an invisible tank of endless energy.

He didn’t stand on a podium or climb a tall tower. He paced the edges of the field like a coach in the final quarter, watching everything, hearing everything.

On the field, a trombone player named Alvin spun out of a curl and popped a long, clean high note with his bell pointed straight at the imaginary press box. Even from the sidelines, I felt it. The air shifted.

A few low brass players hooted. The drumline broke formation for a second, mid-drill, just to whoop at him while he sustained the note.

Mr. G didn’t stop it. He just grinned like it was the best thing he’d seen all day and hollered, “Let the man burn!”

Alvin finished the note with a long fall-off, then with his off hand he mimicked a fake mic drop, lowered his horn like he’d just ended someone’s rap career, and then pivoted smoothly back into formation.

It was impressive.

But my mind was somewhere else. I closed my eyes.

I wanted to feel it, really feel it. The groove, the swagger, the way Alvin’s horn turned sound into a dare. The way the crowd, even if it was just us, couldn’t help but holler. A part of me itched to jump up and be in it. But the rest of me just… couldn’t move.

Not yet.

Like something inside was still trying to crawl out from under a heavy boulder, even after weeks of playing and marching and pretending to be fine.

I was really missing Marissa. We had said our goodbyes. Vowed to stay connected with letters and phone calls. But it had been tough to adjust to the distance.

Bobby, with his dirty blonde bowl cut, middle part sharp enough to pass inspection, trotted over and crouched right in front of me.

“Yo, New Guy.” His wide eyes made him look about twelve, but the grin said full-time mischief.

I didn’t know why he was still calling me “New Guy.” I had been here for three weeks now, through band camp and the whole first week of school.

“You alive?” he asked.

“Define alive,” I muttered with a defiant, but tired smirk.

“Clarence said that you were a big deal at your last school,” he said. “Heard you were first chair in the jazz band?”

“Something like that.”

“Cool. Cool,” he mumbled awkwardly but oddly excitedly.

Mr. G called us back to the field for “one more time.” I followed Bobby as he bounced back to the trumpet line on the field.

I had much less enthusiasm than he had.

We did actually run the show only one more time. Unbelievable, but welcome. Mr. G said it was “just to make sure we had the fire,” but I think it was to see who would break.

I didn’t break.

Didn’t really nail it either. My bottom lip kept sticking to my mouthpiece, I tasted salty copper, and my high B-flat turned into something halfway between a squeak and a honk. But I marched. Hit my spots. Pointed my bell at the imaginary upper rows like I meant it.

When it ended, I wasn’t really aware of the cut off. I just felt my body stop like someone pulled my plug.

***

After rehearsal, we gathered at the fifty yard line for dismissal. A few kids sprawled across the grass. Others leaned back to back with fellow band kids.

Mr. G stood on the sidelines, arms crossed, white towel over his shoulder like a man who’d just finished performing, not teaching. He gave us a long, deliberate look.

Serious.

“Listen up,” he said. “Not too long ago this group was a loose collection of ladies and gentlemen who owned instruments.”

A few kids chuckled.

“Now look at you. Lines tight. Music on fire. Hype to the highest heights.”

He paused.

“And y’all smell awful,” he grinned.

Laughter.

“But seriously, y’all should be proud. We ain’t no pushover band. We play hard, we march harder, and we don’t just perform.” His voice rose. “We elevate…”

“ELEVATE!” The entire band echoed in unison.

“We motivate…” Mr. G continued.

“MOTIVATE!” It was a little louder.

“We dominate…” His eyes were on fire.

“DOMINATE!” The shout echoed across the campus.

It reminded me of Jameson’s marching battle cry. Same energy. Same commitment.

Different style.

Mr. G clapped three times.

“First game’s next week. Don’t get lazy. Don’t fade. We don’t fade, we warm up. We rise. We ignite.”

And then, without ceremony, he nodded to the drum majors.

“Take us outta here,” he said as the drum majors stood and whistled us into attention. “And please, for the love of all that’s holy, go take a shower. You’re scaring the wildlife.”

***

I waited until most of the field cleared. I don’t really know why, but I just stood there. Watching the rest of the band filter off the field.

Alvin walked by, a small hand towel covering his head, headphones around his neck. He gave me a look, not smug, not dismissive.

Just… curious.

He didn’t say anything. Just tossed me a nod and walked off the field.

I stared down at my trumpet.

Game night’s next week.

That’s how long I had to figure out how to march and play like I belonged here.

Or fake it well enough that no one noticed I didn’t.

The new kid… yet again.

***

Outside, the sky was fading into a slow orange. Crickets were starting to chirp. The football stadium was on the other side of the road. I could just see a few of the upper bleachers. They caught the light just enough to look golden.

I sat on the curb by the parking lot waiting on my ride. With the move and all, I still hadn’t gotten a driver’s license.

I pulled out my old notebook, the one with scribbled songs and ideas from Georgia, Jameson, and Voyager.

From… before.

I tried to write. A bar. A riff. A lyric.

Nothing.

I closed the book with a long exhale. And stared past the stadium toward the horizon.

She was somewhere out there. We still talked a few times a week. Still signed off with “I love you.” But some days, I felt the distance more than others.

Chapter 2

[ Tuesday – Second Week of School ]

The desk wobbled like it had survived too many decades and exactly zero repairs.

Carved initials covered the top, some deep and jagged, others faint from years of palm smudges. Smiley faces, a random tic-tac-toe grid, and at least three separate declarations that “J + C = 4EVER” made the surface look like the desk had been someone’s diary long before it became mine.

Not the worst classroom I’d ever sat in, just definitely seemed to be the oldest. At least by how it smelled.

The walls were painted a tired beige. The kind of color that probably had a name like “Maple Toast” but looked more like a Band-Aid. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flickering in and out of sync. The only real life in the room came from the woman at the front.

Ms. Wallace didn’t believe in warm-ups, intros, or small talk. The bell rang, and she was already at the board.

“Bellwork’s on the screen. Graph it. Label it. Show your work.”

Her tone was clipped but not mean, like someone who’d said it a hundred times and knew exactly who was listening and who was zoning out.

“Pencil only,” Ms. Wallace called without looking. “If I see pens, I send your work to the trash can.”

“What is bellwork?” I murmured to myself as I pulled out my notebook and started sketching the parabola. I didn’t think anyone heard me.

Next to me, a blonde girl with a perfect half-up ponytail clicked her mechanical pencil and said, “It’s just the work we’re supposed to do when we first come in class. Ya know, right after the bell rings.”

It was Diane, from band.

She was already halfway through the assignment, posture perfect, scrunchie matching her socks, front bangs stopping just above her eyes, locked on the paper like it was a competition she planned to win.

“Oh,” I said. “That makes sense.”

Fair, sharp-featured, and quiet, Diane wasn’t unfriendly, just focused. She played clarinet. We hadn’t said more than three words to each other since school started. The trumpets rarely mixed with other sections during rehearsal and I was too busy thinking about Marissa to pay her much attention.

But she was definitely aware I existed, like a runner clocking the competition in the next lane over.

I finished my graph a few milliseconds after she did. Our pencils landed on the desk at nearly the same time.

Ms. Wallace turned from the board and gave a brief nod toward our row.

“Wesley. Diane,” she said. “You two trying to finish the whole year today?”

The class chuckled.

Diane didn’t smile. She just tucked her pencil behind her ear and waited for the next problem.

Welcome to Geometry.

Apparently, the competition came free.

***

Between classes, the hallway felt like a crowded street with no traffic laws. Lockers slammed. Sneakers squeaked. Everyone had their own look. FUBU windbreakers. Cross Colours jackets. I even saw a Charlotte Hornets Starter jacket even though we were in Alabama. Lots of oversized tees: Tommy Hilfiger, Looney Tunes, or Nike.

Jeans came in two varieties: baggy or baggier. And just about everybody had on Reeboks, Filas, or Jordans that looked like they never touched dirt. My dirty sneakers didn’t get the memo, but this was a whole new level of fashion.

I always felt slightly underdressed while walking the hallways of Northwest High School.

A freshman dropped his binder and scrambled to catch every loose worksheet like it was falling currency.

I checked the map I’d drawn in the margin of my notebook, arrows pointing from first period to second, from second to third, from third to my locker, then to lunch.

Still didn’t help.

Everything looked the same. Beige cinder block and bulletin boards on every hall.

I was trying to decide if the room at the end of the hall was 318 or 319 when someone fell into step beside me.

“What’s up, New Guy?”

I turned.

It was Bobby, trumpet case slung over one shoulder, hair a little flatter than it had been the last time I saw him.

“Geometry,” I said. “And a minor rivalry with a sophomore.”

“A girl sophomore?” he asked, grinning and throwing his arm around my shoulder.

“Yeah,” I said dryly. “But it’s not like that. She’s in band, clarinet, I think.”

“Oh, that’s probably Diane,” he said.

“She already corrected my posture.”

“Oh yeah, that’s Diane. She’s been known to do that too.” He laughed. “Sophomores.”

We walked a few steps in sync. No rush. No weirdness.

“You always carry your trumpet?” I asked.

“Band is life,” he said dramatically. “Also, I can never remember my locker combination. But mostly the first thing.”

Then he veered off and skipped toward another hallway like he belonged there.

“Uh… bye?” I said into empty space as I watched him go.

But somehow, he felt like someone I could count on.

***

Chemistry was chaos, controlled, booming, mildly terrifying chaotic chaos.

Mr. Kittrell wore a tie that looked like it had survived an acid spill, which, knowing him, might’ve been literal.

“What do you get when you add zinc to hydrochloric acid?” he barked as he uncapped a test tube.

“Explosion?” someone in the back mumbled.

“Hydrogen gas,” he corrected. “But yes, if you’re stupid enough to trap it, also an explosion.”

Then he dropped the metal in and grinned as it fizzed like a bad idea.

Someone in the back muttered “yoooo” under their breath.

I tried to take notes. Really, I did.

But somewhere between “molar ratios” and “single-replacement reactions,” I lost focus.

My pencil wandered to the margin, sketching out a broken rhythm, just a few bars of staff lines, an X on beat one, a rest on three, something off-balance. It wasn’t a melody. Just a shape. Like the start of something that didn’t want to finish.

I stared at it for a second. Then scribbled a lyric and boxed it in with a frame.

Half a line left, not enough to say anything

I didn’t know what it meant yet. Just knew it was incomplete, stuck. I thought about showing it to Marissa. She liked weird, half-formed things, always suggesting what it could be instead of what it was at that moment.

***

Third period was Civics with Ms. Rangel.

She wore wire-rimmed glasses, a denim skirt, and the kind of expression that dared you to disagree with her on principle. The desks were arranged in a U-shape, which she said was “for Socratic discussion and democratic confrontation.”

“We don’t memorize in here,” she told us on day one. “We analyze, we argue, and we cite our sources.”

I mostly kept my head down, but even from halfway across the room, I could tell she’d already picked out the students she planned to push harder. I was getting the distinct feeling I was one of them.

I shifted in my chair, suddenly aware of how straight I was sitting. Ms. Rangel’s eyes flicked my way and didn’t blink.

***

The air in the lunch room was thick with tater tots and clashing teen body sprays.

I stood for a second with my tray—cheeseburger, carton of chocolate milk, tots—and scanned the room. The tables were full of cliques I didn’t know how to label yet. Some band kids here, a group of football players there, and a loud table in the corner that looked like it ran the school without asking for permission.

I spotted Bobby.

He was waving a fruit roll-up like a flag, making a dramatic point to someone sitting across from him. When he saw me, he pointed like I was overdue.

“Yo! Wesley! Come sit. We’ve got a spot.”

I slid into the seat across from him. Diane was at the end of the bench, poking at a salad like it had offended her.

“Didn’t know we were on a first-name basis,” I said, peeling back the corner of my milk carton, thankful he wasn’t calling me “New Guy” at the moment.

“We are now,” Bobby grinned. “You survived Ms. Wallace and didn’t die at afterschool band practice yesterday? That earns you first name privileges, New Guy.”

Ugh.

“Must be hard knowing you’re second best in Geometry,” Diane said with a wry grin.

“She’s kidding.” Bobby snorted. “Mostly.”

“Am I?” she muttered, but the corner of her mouth twitched into a smile that she was trying to hide.

I took a bite of the burger. Not bad. Not good. Just cafeteria.

I miss The Sentinel Diner Crew. And Taco Time…

At the next table over, a kid in a tilted baseball cap leaned in toward his friend.

“I’m telling you, Alvin and the band are gonna light the stadium on fire Friday.”

There was no pushback. No sarcasm. Just a ripple of “mmhmms” and someone muttering, “For real.”

I didn’t turn, but I felt it, that shift in tone. That unspoken agreement that Alvin wasn’t just talented. He was the guy. The center of whatever mattered.

Big man on campus. No votes needed.

Bobby caught me listening and raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You’re gonna hear that name a lot. Alvin runs low brass like it’s a kingdom.”

“He’s good.” Diane finally looked up. “You’ll see.”

I nodded but didn’t respond. I had already seen it. He was really good.

We finished our lunches in mostly friendly silence. A few casual jokes. Diane corrected Bobby’s history reference, and he mock-defended himself holding up a chicken nugget to make a point neither Diane or I understood.

I didn’t have much to add.

But I didn’t feel out of place either.

And for the first time since I had moved to Alabama, it felt like normal, whatever normal was here at Northwest, might be possible.

***

Fifth period was English with Mr. Ellison. He spoke like every sentence had a second meaning and didn’t believe in using the textbook if the library had something better.

“Words are power,” he said at the beginning of class. “Learn how to use them, or someone else will use them on you.”

Sounds deep.

I scratched behind my ear with the end of my pencil and stared at the ceiling tiles like they might explain it better.

“Brooks wrote about ordinary people,” he said, pacing the front of the room. “Gwendolyn Brooks. Chicago. Pulitzer winner. First Black poet to get that prize, by the way.”

Then he handed out copies of a poem and told us to underline whatever made us feel something, even if we couldn’t explain it.

We read it.

I didn’t fully understand it, but I couldn’t stop thinking about one line.

I copied it in the corner of my notebook just so I wouldn’t lose track of it:

I shall not sing a May song.

It didn’t make sense. Not completely.

But something in it stuck.

***

Band class was familiar, different from Jameson or Voyager, but still the same in a lot of ways.

Same music stands. Same warmups. Same inside jokes from the back row of trumpets. The grind of learning sets and cleaning measures still felt like home.

But the vibe was louder, looser, flashier.

At Jameson, precision had been everything.

At Voyager, it was about fun and feel.

Here? At Northwest it was about attitude.

Groove. Presence.

We were working on music for our halftime show. It was titled Back in the Groove. It opened with “Whoomp! (There It Is),” slid into “If I Had No Loot,” then slowed down for “End of the Road” before picking back up with a “Motownphilly” drumline feature. “Poison” was our visual punch, horn pops, step-outs, crowd hype. And we closed with “Remember the Time.”

Mr. G said it was about swagger and soul, “classic groove with new heat.”

The Pride of Northwest might’ve been small, but they moved like they had something to prove.

And I was starting to get why.

I wasn’t sure what I had to prove. Or if anyone here would even care if I did.

***

At the end of the day, I stood by my locker watching the crowd spill around me like a flood.

It wasn’t like they were rude. No one shoved. No one sneered or stared. They were just… busy. In motion. Like a school of fish that already knew where the current was taking them.

They weren’t mean or cold.

But I still felt like I’d been dropped into a movie halfway through. Many of these kids had grown up here in Ashmore, gone to the same elementary and middle schools.

Me? Third high school in three years.

I adjusted the strap on my backpack and closed my locker.

Marissa would’ve liked Mr. Kittrell’s chemistry rant. Would’ve made some joke about angry chemicals and compounds and told me to write a song about it. I made a mental note to tell her about it later.

I smiled without meaning to.

Then I headed toward the exit to band practice, the hallway noise fading behind me like the tail end of a marching cadence, one I hadn’t quite learned how to count yet.

Chapter 3

Mr. G paced the edge of the practice field like he was waiting for someone to challenge him. He wasn’t up in a tower. Not up on a podium. Just prowling the sideline, watching everything, hearing everything. He had the kind of presence that didn’t need elevation to command the space.

He had that band director aura, like his eyes could track four hundred things at once, even while adjusting his towel or sipping from a half-peeled Gatorade bottle. Halbrook had it too, in a drill-sergeant in a polo shirt kind of way. Mr. Brenner had it in laid back loafers and Hawaiian shirts.

But Mr. G? His style was all sideline heat and instinct. He wore jean shorts and a collared shirt with loud vertical stripes, the kind of colors you couldn’t ignore, a gold chain flashing just under the collar. His hair was rounded and even, shaped like he’d made sure every edge was in place before stepping out here. Nothing sloppy. Everything sharp, like he wanted to look as put together as the band he was leading. Even his sneakers looked sharp. Bright white, like he’d polished them before rehearsal. Not a single scuff on them.

Every few minutes, he’d mutter something into his megaphone, not even at us, just toward the grass, like the field itself was misbehaving.

And somehow, that made us march sharper.

He stopped suddenly, snapped his fingers once, and pointed downfield.

“This ain’t a concert,” he shouted. “It’s a collision.”

The band didn’t miss a beat. Or if they did, they made the miss look intentional. Snares cracked. Sousaphones swung. A few woodwinds let out a synchronized “YEAH!” like punctuation marks to his sentence. It was chaos, organized, impossible chaos, and somehow, we were all in it together.

The sound wrapped around us. Drums bit into the downbeat. Brass notes collided in midair. Sneakers snapped against the grass. It wasn’t music exactly, not yet.

It was potential. Kinetic.

Like someone had poured gasoline across the field and Mr. G had just struck a match.

At Jameson, in the Sentinel Sound, discipline from Halbrook came quiet—just a look, a nod, standing tall. No yelling needed. Even the silence was loud. A sharp “Yes, sir!” was the correct response to getting called out. You got respect by standing at attention and letting your posture do the talking.

In the Voyager Band of Gold, that discipline loosened up, but the fundamentals were still tight.

Here at Northwest, the rules worked differently.

Louder. Looser. Like swagger was part of the uniform.

Here? It was like lighting a fuse.

It wasn’t disrespect. It was momentum.

The band matched his energy and he expected them to.

People didn’t stiffen when Mr. G raised his voice, they amplified. Fed off it. Spun it into noise and rhythm and fire. Like he’d just given the band permission to go harder.

Cries of “Yeah!” and “Yo!” filled the air.

And somehow, it worked.

I stayed locked in my spot in block formation, third trumpet from the sideline, back hash. Alvin stood upfield, left of center, eyes locked straight ahead like he already knew the next ten pages of drill by heart. Bobby was next to me, lightly bouncing his knees like the beat was stored in them.

“Ready up!” Mr. G barked.

The field froze.

A few kids exhaled like they’d been holding their breath since the set began.

Then, he set us in motion.

“Push from Set 26. One-TWO-and-One-two-ready-march.”

We launched, like dominoes set into motion. Horns up. Knees high. Every step bit into the chalk line like it owed us something. I felt the beat before I played it. Heard my own breath echo inside the mouthpiece. There wasn’t time to think. Just time to trust that I’d land where I needed to.

***

I don’t remember much of the practice. Just pieces. Full warm up block. Parts of the show. A water break sprinkled in every now and then.

My bell flashing toward the sideline.

My foot dragging on the third pivot.

My high B-flat catching on my split lip.

And Alvin, always Alvin, sliding through each curve like he was born in that formation.

By the end, my calves were on fire, and somehow my water bottle had migrated to the 40-yard line. I dropped out with a hand signal and Mr. G nodded without breaking stride. I made it to the edge of the field and collapsed onto the grass.

Seconds later, Bobby dropped into the dust beside me like it was a beanbag chair.

He unwrapped a half-rolled fruit roll-up with the care of someone presenting a sacred offering.

Then he pointed it at me.

“Remember that time you were learning to high step?”

He didn’t wait for a response.

“You were stepping and lifting your knees, trying to catch the rhythm, and it looked like your knees were trying to leave your body, but, like… in a good way.”

“Uh… thanks?” I stared at him.

“Yeah, that was awesome,” Bobby said awkwardly as he stood, jolting me back to the present.

Then he jogged off, whooping at the color guard and spinning his trumpet in his right hand without waiting for a reply. The spin wasn’t elegant. More like a kid who’d watched too many gunslinger movies. But it made me grin. He nearly dropped it on the third twirl and yelped just loud enough to draw side-eyes from the guard.

“Boy, you crazy,” one girl said, spinning her flag like she was going through the routine as he bounced past.

The truth was, it hadn’t felt good at first. That first week, high stepping felt like marching through wet cement. Every part of me wanted to stay low, glide, roll step, and keep it tight, like I’d been trained. But this band didn’t glide. They moved like the ground owed them something.

Kim, our trumpet section leader, figured me out on day one. She didn’t say much at first, just watched. Tall, sharp-eyed, and cool without trying, she had that kind of presence that made people adjust their posture when she walked by.

On the second afternoon, I stumbled through a transition coming out of a horn pop. Lost the step. Dropped a beat.

“Wade,” she called, “you march like you’re trying to solve complex math problems.”

She gave me a look, part coach, part older sister, part really?

“Get your knees up. Like they got something to prove.”

I blinked, halfway through an apology, but she was already walking it out, high step, clean lift, shoulder pop. Then she pointed to the spot where I was standing.

“Try again.”

So I did. It wasn’t pretty.

But she didn’t laugh or roast me. Just stood nearby, calling out quiet fixes between reps: angle, posture, rhythm, step size. Tough, not harsh. She expected you to figure it out because she believed you could.

Sweat rolled down my neck. My calves twitched with every set. Footfalls hit the patchy grass like snare pops. Scuffed white lines blurred beneath us. Kim didn’t hover. She kept the pace just close enough to push me, but let me find the steps myself.

By the end of the week, I wasn’t perfect, but I wasn’t faking it anymore. The steps started to feel real. And when I finally hit a full warm-up block without slipping back into the style of marching that had been drilled into me the last two marching seasons, Kim gave me a nod and smiled.

“That’s it,” she said. “Now don’t lose it.”

I didn’t.

At least, not that day. I caught myself wanting to tell Marissa. To say, “Hey, I figured it out.” I knew she’d be proud.

***

Mr. G blew a whistle sharp enough to snap the horizon.

“Take five! But if I catch anyone goofing off, I’m assigning scale tests in all twelve keys. Blindfolded.”

Groans.

Laughter.

I stayed where I was, sitting in the grass with my knees drawn up. I could still hear the echo of Kim’s voice, the way she said it, Don’t lose it, like it wasn’t just about marching.

Around me, the band chattered and stretched. The sousas were doing pushups for some reason. Clarence was trying to moonwalk across the spotty grass, but his Filas weren’t cooperating.

And Alvin?

Alvin stood at the fifty, arms crossed, cool as shade. There was something about him.

Cool. Quiet. Unreadable.

Not arrogant. Just unbothered.

He didn’t need to prove he belonged. He just did. And even though he never said a word, it felt like every move he made was a challenge. Not to embarrass anybody. Just to raise the bar.

He didn’t look my way. But he didn’t have to.

I knew he saw everything.